Manhunt. Volume 5, Number 5, May 1957

Munro’s arm straightened out again, and I yelled at him not to shoot. He wasn’t listening, so I made a flying leap over the wounded man and batted the gun out of Munro’s hand. That broke him up; he slipped down against the wall and covered his face with both hands. I got the gun in time to cover the man on the floor.

“Outa the way!” he shrieked, his revolver half out of his jacket. “I’ll kill the son-of-a-bitch—”

“Hold it!” I leveled the .32. “Don’t draw!”

He didn’t listen to me. He had the revolver out. Behind me, Dean was making noises like a sick calf.

“You’re not hurt bad, pal,” I said to Otto. “Looks like a leg wound. Don’t make things any worse.”

“Get outa the way!”

Instinct told me to shoot now and avoid trouble, but I couldn’t do it. The next thing I knew, Dean was on my back, clutching me like a log in a rough sea, blubbering at me to protect him. The revolver barked, and chewed out a splinter in the wall behind us. Dean grabbed for the .32 in my hand, yelling for me to fire. I tried to shake him off, but he was obsessed. In the struggle, he got spun around and Otto’s next bullet caught him. I didn’t mean to set Dean up that way, but I caught a look in his eyes, when he went to the floor, that was accusing.

I had no choice now. I squeezed the trigger and saw blood spurt from the burly gent’s wounded hand. He moaned as the gun dropped from his hand, then he fell forward on the carpet his face contorted with pain.

I looked at Dean. The bullet had caught him in the abdomen, and there was no doubt that he was through. I went over to Otto.

“Can you talk?” I asked him.

He nodded his head.

“You know this guy?” I said. “You recognize him?”

“Yeah. Rahway, 1948...”

“You killed his wife, didn’t you?”

He strained to look at me. “Who the hell are you?”

“Nobody,” I said. “Just a hired hand.”

The burly guy chuckled, even though he was bleeding.

“What’s so funny?” I said.

“Him,” Otto said. “Always keepin’ his hands clean. Always hirin’ somebody to do the work...” He grimaced with pain.

“What are you talking about?”

“He hired me to do it. Hired me to kill his wife. Then he hired guys all over the country to find me, knock me off, so I’d never talk.”

I stared down at the burly man. Finally, I looked over at Munro Dean. There was still a flicker of life in him, and he was holding the wound with both hands. He was staring at his hands watching the blood spilling between his fingers. His hands weren’t so clean now.

Toward a Grave by Howard B. Shaeffer

I’m in the morgue, Helen thought in terror. Help me! Somebody help me!

* * *

Helen Johnson struggled back from the black abyss of nothingness. She had a strange awareness of someone being near. Vaguely, through the pounding in her head and the roaring in her ears, she thought she heard voices. Detached voices — soft, faraway, floating voices. She struggled to hear, not understanding the words.

Where am I, she thought. What’s happened?

Memory eased its way back into her thoughts, slowly, falteringly at first. Then it flooded over her in waves. Mamie had booked her for the night. That man, she thought, the one she hadn’t liked. He had insisted on her or no one. She remembered that he had become angry over something she had said, had demanded his fifty bucks back. She remembered the look on his face when she had laughed at him. Remembered his reaching for the heavy ornament by his bed, raising it, bringing it crashing down. Now this, she thought, puzzled.

Voices invaded her thoughts. She could identify some of the words now. Dead! Someone is dead, she thought. Had she killed him? Helen weighed this thought a moment, sifting it back and forth. No, she thought, he hit me! That’s all I remember. Somebody else must be dead. Shimmering forms began to take shape before her eyes. The thought flashed through her mind that she must have been unconscious with her eyes open. She hadn’t opened them, but the blackness was fast disappearing. Voices again, floating over her, around her. Sudden flashing lights. The shimmering forms slowly took shape. A blurred face stared down at her. The face disappeared and Helen found herself staring fixedly at the ceiling light directly overhead. She tried to avert her eyes. Nothing happened. The face blocked her view again. Its lips moved.

“It’s a shame, lieutenant. Good lookin’ gal like that. So he wanted his fifty bucks back. Didn’t have to kill her for it!”

Blackness sifted slowly down upon her. The voices mingled with the droning in her ears. She fought against the blackness. She couldn’t understand. Some girl is dead, she thought, but that can’t be. Might it be one of Mamie’s girls?

Voices again. The light came back into focus.

“Well, that about wraps it up. You boys through?”

“Just one more shot, lieutenant.” A twinkling flash of light. “That’ll do it. She’s all yours, lieutenant.”

“Here. Cover her with this sheet till the boys from downtown get here.”